


1974

by zauberer_sirin



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-07-08
Updated: 2008-07-08
Packaged: 2018-05-08 00:35:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5476430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zauberer_sirin/pseuds/zauberer_sirin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's 1974. The best year to watch football. And the Cold War unfold. The Doctor takes Martha on a trip to the World Cup final.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1974

**i.**

 

It starts with: there's something big and hungry and _alien_ rampaging through the sewers of East Berlin and-

No, wait. It starts before that. What kind of love story would that be if it started with a big, hungry, _alien_ monster in the sewers of East Berlin?

It starts half the country away, in Munich.

It starts with two people going to a football match and no one would guess, upon seeing them, they are anything else than a boy and a girl on a date.

They are not.

 

**ii.**

 

`Seriously, you humans. You can't even grasp the most basic concepts of...´

`Football?´ Martha offers, amused.

`Yeah.´

`Sorry. I just happen to think Germany played better.´

`What? That, Martha, was Netherlands. That was Cruyff. That was the best football team you'll ever know. Have you never heard of Total Football?´

`They lost, though,´ Martha points out casually.

`Yeah,´ the Doctor looks totally downhearted, although he already knew what was going to happen in the match.

Martha shrugs, as if apologizing:

`The Dutch were too flashy. Germany had the brains, I'm glad they won.´

`But that's too cerebral. You should go with the one who plays beautiful. Did you see them? Cruyff and Neskeens. And, and Johnny Rep. They were the best team in history. Well, until the 2031-32 New Salzburg, of course.´

`Clearly we'll never agree on this. I'm used to it. Dad supports Chelsea.´

The Doctor smiles.

`It was nice, though,´ she says. `Wasn't it?´

`Yes, that was brilliant.´

 

**iii.**

 

It had been nice. Martha had always thought of these years as in smudged black and white but being here... It was sort of black and white still, actually. The subdued colours in the clothes, the lean face, always seemingly on the verge of misery.

`It's a sad country now,´ the Doctor told her and Martha yes, agreed, she remembered her history classes. `But in ninety minutes it will be happy.´

The Doctor showed his psychic paper to the man in the box office. Apparently he and Martha were plain clothes police officers infiltrating the supporters to prevent any disturbance. The man had looked odd at them -Martha realized the absurdity of someone like her being a cop in 1974- but they were in without too much convincing.

It was all stone and vertical angles. _German architecture_ the Doctor snorted but Martha quite liked it, the rawness of it. It's an oddly covered stadium, spidery, with that futuristic ambition that gets old very, very quickly.

They walked up the terrace stairs holding hands and to anyone who didn't know better, they looked like any other normal couple wanting to see a match.

The Doctor insisted they sat with the Dutch fans but Martha had decided to support Germany from the very first minute, no reason, just to annoy the Doctor.

He looked actually heartbroken when the referee blew the final whistle and the Germans threw their hands in the air - Martha remembers the look of surprise in Gerald Muller's face, genuine joy, from seeing recaps on television.

`You knew they were going to lose, Doctor.´

`Yes but-´

`What? You expected this time to be different.´

The Doctor scratched the back of his neck.

`Maybe.´

`That's impossible,´ Martha argued, almost offended by his lack of logic.

`One has to hope against hope. One has to think that things will be different, this time around.´

He put his hands in his pockets and Martha followed him out of the stadium.

 

**iv.**

 

`Wait. Was that a date?´

`What?!´

`If we were going to East Berlin from the beginning, we didn't have to come to Munich. It was just to see the match, right? That's very date-like.´

`What? It's- what's the point of being a time traveller if we can't do this sort of thing. Wait, you wanted it to be a date?´

`Why? You want me to-´

`Let's stop that. Okay?´

 

**v.**

 

Martha notices they are going the opposite direction from where they parked the TARDIS.

`We are going the wrong way?´

`The train station is this way.´

Martha stops on her heels.

`Train station? What about the TARDIS?´

The Doctor shakes his head: `Oh, no, I'm not driving my ship anywhere near East Germany. No.´

`Take this,´ he gives Martha a flat, silvery object.

`What's this?´

`Your very own Learn-German-In-Zero-Days course. A piece of the translating equipment of the TARDIS. We'd better blend in and I don't know about you but I know nothing of the 1970s south-of-the-Rhin slang.´

Martha pockets the artifact reluctantly.

`Why can't we just go in the TARDIS?´

`I wouldn't risk bringing the TARDIS in there. People are always on the lookout for alien technology, you can't imagine. Twice during the Cold War they put me in a lab to test me. It's not just capitalist prigs East Germany is worried about.´

He gestures towards the sky, as if to make a point.

`That is so conspiracy theory. Leo and I used to watched _The X Files_ when we were little, you know.´

 

**vi.**

 

The trains are old even for the period. Martha thinks their carriage smells a bit weird but they have it all to themselves. The ticket inspectors remind her of spy movies with Michael Caine or Richard Burton. The train itself is loud and slow and inefficient but it's charmingly rustic and Martha entertains the idea of being inside the Harry Potter universe for a bit.

The Doctor suggests they should sleep.

Martha sits by his side and he is secretly glad, fantasizing about her falling asleep with her head on his shoulder. He knows he shouldn't think like that.

`I can sleep through anything,´ she tells him. `It's a skill you pick up as first year doctor. Don't divulge this information but I can actually sleep _while_ treating a patient.´

`I bet you can. I have been known to sleep anywhere, yes. But each body is different. This regeneration is a bit a restless.´

Martha raises an eyebrow, puts her hand over his forearm.

`Yeah, I can believe that.´

But the motion of the train and the darkness outside soon lull him into sleep.

 

**vii.**

 

He dreams about the Master.

He never stopped dreaming about him at all.

The Master always looks mildly annoyed about being dead but okay otherwise. Humorous even. The Doctor wonders what part of it is his subconscious compensating and what part is the Master as he really remembers.

`I've been wondering all day,´ the Doctor says. `Did you like football?´

They are at the edge of the Sea of Orion, sand white and grey and sky-blue, and the water almost coming up to their feet. The silence is almost palpable. No noise except for the Master, inside his head. The Master is dead and he can still hear the drums, they never stopped - the Doctor realizes, in his dreams there are nightmares too.

The Master snorts.

`Did you not see my campaign pictures with Roman Abramovich?´

The Doctor says nothing. Say _fascist_ to a ghost wouldn't be appropriate.

`I wanted Netherlands to win. This time.´

`They always lose,´ the Master says calmly, distracted, looking at the waves, and the waves getting wilder and the water getting darker, as if nature was responding to the Master's gaze. `No matter how many times you come back to 1974.´

`That's what Martha said.´

`Mhm,´ the Master looks away, uninterested.

`She supported Germany.´

`She's a scientist.´

`I'm a scientist.´

`You are a moron.´

And in his dream the Doctor chuckles at that. Yes, his subconscious is obviously compensating here.

`Who would you support?´ he asks the Master.

`Whichever team wins, of course. You should know that by now.´

The sea roars.

The Doctor wakes up.

 

**viii.**

 

`Doctor, wake up!´

Martha's fingers are twisted around his coat, shaking him gently.

`What?´

The sound of the crashing waves mix with the sound of the carriage pushing forwards, he can't tell where the dreamed stopped and this started. He notices there's worry and sadness in Martha's face.

He notices he has woken up with his cheeks wet.

`You were having a nightmare.´

She doesn't comment on the tears. He wipes his face looking away from her, looking at the window.

`It's almost dawn,´ he says.

`Yes,´ Martha finally lets go of his clothes, drawing back to her seat. `We'll reach Berlin soon. We'd better have our passports ready.´ He shoots her a look. `Or, you know, _our psychic papers_.´

 

**ix.**

 

The man at the border of West/East Berlin is clearly drunk. Martha notices first because she's has too much experience with drunks. Apparently the man has been celebrating Germany's victory with beer all day. He plans on naming his son (his wife is due this month) Franz Beckenbauer. Yep, the whole name.

`He will be Franz Beckenbauer Herzen.´

`That's awesome,´ the Doctor says. 

The man is a bit taken aback by the Doctor's use of 21st century language.

`Don't mind him,´ Martha interrupts. `He is angry because of the final. He is Dutch.´

`And you? I don't suppose you are German?´

`No.´

Martha knows where this is going. Thanks to the TARDIS translating system she is now a black girl with a flawless Bavarian accent.

`You speak perfect German.´

She smiles, hoping to have learned from the Doctor how to charm your way out of a situation.

`I'm a fan of the language.´

The man hands then back the psychic paper and lets them pass.

 

**x.**

 

The Doctor is talking to what seems to be a captain in some branch of the army, not the police. He looks far to comfortable with the transaction of information and Martha gets the feeling the Doctor does this regularly.

`Come on,´ the Doctor takes Martha by the elbow, dragging her confidently through the streets. `Tomorrow we will go on patrol with the captain. He will show where they saw the creature.´

`And until then?´ Martha notices how it's almost dusk.

`Until then he has found a centric accommodation for us.´

`How did the Germans knew how to contact you, for this type of thing?´

The Doctor flashes her a wide, bright smile.

`I'm a man of renown. The expert in this field.´

`Who you gonna call?´ Martha hums as they disappeared between blocks of concrete and posters that tell them that _the revolution is a reality_.

 

**xi.**

 

It is dingy as only an East Berlin motel in 1974 could be. Well, not a motel, that would be a capitalist name. It's more a guest house built around a shared patio where a tiny wrinkled woman is talking to her canary and a fat man is taking photos of the neighbour's plants. Martha thinks it's exotic as anywhere she's been, if a bit grey and moss-green.

The old lady in charge of the building hands them a rusty key.

`Are you married?´

The Doctor looks at Martha.

`No?´

`Good,´ the old woman says. `Marriage is a burgeois lie. I'll show you the way.´

`I'm sure we can find it ourselves, thank you.´

 

**xii.**

 

`Just one bed. Uh?´

`Yes. We seem to _keep_ making that same mistake.´

 

**xiii.**

 

He is just out of the bathroom -the tie a bit loose, the face clear by a splash of water- when Martha kisses him.

It's so out of the blue, so uncalled for that he has no other thought but to kiss back.

She presses her index against his wrist, barely grazing, but the Doctor can feel her heartbeat like he has a third one, Clear, loud as blood. As-

He tries to open his mouth to say _no_ but Martha bites his lower lip.

The kiss is sudden but is also nothing like a surprise - they've been walking into this for a long time, maybe they always have, from the beginning. Martha tiptoes to kiss him - she loves him for being so tall. She runs her tongue along the roof of his mouth and the Doctor shivers.

 _No_ , he thinks. If only those two silly letters could make it to his mouth.

 

**xix.**

 

He puts his palm into the hollow of her collarbone and stops her. A moment too late, if you ask him. He indulges himself, savouring her taste. He darts his tongue and licks his lips, and he doesn't me to.

He means to-

`Martha, I don't want this for you. I don't want you to define your whole existence by me.´

She tilts her head in a gesture the Doctor knows by heart. By _hearts_.

`Your ego.´

`No. I've had some experience.´

`It's not that. I know, and you should know, you are not everything in my life. But I want you to be part of it. An important part.´

`But-´

`And it's my choice, really.´

 

**xx.**

The Doctor undresses with something akin to embarrasment.

Martha waits for him, sitting on the edge of bed, watching him but not drawing attention to the fact that she is doing so.

When he finishes she takes his hands in hers and bends to kiss his palm, a long, wet touch of the lips against the line of love or destiny, Martha doesn't know, she always mistakes them. She pulls him closer. With one hand on his shoulder she guides him to bed.

`Why now?´

Martha looks at him, the length of him thinking god, he is beautiful. And alien. Strange. Frightening.

`One has to hope against hope,´ she says simply.

The Doctor lies on his back, watching with almost curiosity as Martha climbs into bed, too and takes his head on her hands and starts kissing the line of his jaw upwards, sucking, biting slightly. She raises some beginning of a moan from him - the kind of sound Martha has imagined many times in her mind.

They hear two men arguing next door, and the faint wailing of a sire many streets from here. The place is dingy as only the decade warrants, they do notice the peeling, rotting wallpaper coming off the walls but it doesn't cheapen the moment down. It's the Cold War but the Doctor feels warm under Martha and he knows it's a bad metaphor but even bad poetry can't quite dumb what he feels for her down.

The sheets are cheap and rough and the Doctor is not sure how often they've been washed but it doesn't matter. He hears the soft noise of her feet moving under the fabric, he can pinpoint the exact moment her left ankle makes contact - it's a Time Lord thing, he feels every little thing and each inch of her skin means a whole expanding universe, stars bursting into fleeting, gorgeous life, burning into him.

`Mmm, Martha?´

`Yes?´

`Can you turn off the lights?´

Martha smiles at him, tender, sad and familiar.

`Yes.´

She doesn't ask why. She doesn't feel that she needs to know or the extent of the Doctor's fear.

In the darkness she is as swift and precise as in the light. She pins his arms above his head and when he tries to say something else, something _more_ , she stops him. Her mouth is like thick clothes in winter. It's been a long time since he's done this - he wonders if he's done it before at all. He can't remember.

Martha's tiny body feels heavy on his. With the lights out every touch comes as a surprise. His hands falls at his sides, twisting the sheets around his fingers. He breathes in short, anguished whimpers.

`Are you okay?´ Martha takes his head in her hands. She can't quite see his expression in the shadows.

The Doctor murmurs something that never gets to be a fully-formed word. But Martha feels him nodding through the palms of her hands, the brushing against his cheeks. He takes her hand and brings it to his mouth, kissing it and leaving his lips there for a long time. Martha presses her forehead against his and moves her hips just a little bit to the right and he comes.

It's quick and melancholy and needy.

He lets out an exasperated laugh and Martha starts kissing his face. He can tell, by the way her lips fall against his left temple, that she is smiling.

Afterwards she seems _dangerously_ happy when she wraps herself around him and falls asleep against his shoulderblade.

The Doctor thinks _what have I done?_ but he goes to sleep despite it all, because Martha's arm around his waist makes him feel, if not less lonely, safer than he's felt in centuries.

 

**xxi.**

 

He dreams about Gallifrey - he dreams a lot about Gallifrey when he is around Martha.

Tonight, however, he doesn't wake up from the dream with the familiar panic.

 

**xxii.**

 

`Hideous creatures in the sewers,´ Martha is summarizing as they follow the German captain into the entrails of the city. `Do you think they are Weevils?´

The Doctor looks at her in horror.

`You spend too much time with Jack.´

 

**xxiii.**

The creatures are not Weevils, definitely, but equally dangerous, if on the green-and-scal-y side of things, now that Martha sees them up closely.

It's her fault, really, that she let herself be cornered by the creature. Amateur. And here, among the mud and lime and dirt and the half-darkness that make any movement a challenge, each mistake could be fatal.

Fortunately the German captain is, apart from a very silent, very stuck-up young man, a great shoot. The most the creature gets to do to Martha is an ugly-looking but superficial scratch on her shoulder before it is shot down.

The Doctor looks at the bit of blood on her arm like he is about to faint from seeing it.

`Don't do that again,´ he says between his teeth, examining the bruised skin with careful, hesitating fingertips. He looks angry.

 _Don't do that again_ , he repeats soft like begging, voice low so that Martha thinks she has _imagined_ him saying it.

 

**xxiv.**

`This is not the first time you work with those guys, no way.´

`No. Well, not really.´

`Please, don't tell me that is some sort of East Germany Torchwood.´

`More like an East Germany UNIT, really.´

`That doesn't make me feel exactly better.´

 

**xxv.**

 

Back in the guest house he grabs some alcohol and cotton and sits Martha on the bed, tending to her wound.

`Doctor...´

He says nothing. He kneels by her side, concentrating on the task at hand and refusing to make eye contact. 

`The creature,´ he starts finally, `it was a Myrka. I've met its race before. This is the second time a friend of mine almost dies because-´

`A _friend_ ,´ Martha cocks her head to one side.

The Doctor seems to ignore her, keeps on cleaning her wound in silence.

`This is not going to work,´ he mutters after a while, not looking at her.

Martha puts two fingers under his chin and pushes, he lifts his head. Her hand drifts to his cheek, strokes it.

`It's working already. It has always worked.´

The Doctor nods slightly, Martha can tell the fear in his eyes as he goes back to brushing the bit of cotton against her shoulder, wiping her skin clean.

With his free hand he grabs Martha's and entwines their fingers together, pressing very tightly, like a wordless, tactile plea.

 

**xxvi.**

 

The train journey back to Munich seems even duller than the first one.

The Doctor falls asleep but he doesn't dream.

Or if he dreams he can't remember what about, when he wakes up.

When he wakes up his head is peacefully resting, fallen, on Martha's shoulder.

 

**xxvii.**

`Can we go back?´

`When?´

`Two days ago. The final?´

`Why?´

`No reason. I wanted to see Germany's second goal again. You can hope that the Dutch might win, maybe, this time.´

`As long as we don't bump into ourselves.´

`It's a date.´

`Yes. _It is_ , Martha.´


End file.
